


Happy Endings

by granite



Series: Home Life [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kid Fic, M/M, Married Couple, SO MUCH FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 17:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granite/pseuds/granite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre and Courfeyrac stop by, Olivie wants to know how her fathers met, and Enjolras tells her his side of the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Endings

**Author's Note:**

> Olivie is fifteen or sixteen in this fic. Sorry for the gratuitous narrative parts.

Olivie lays in bed, working away at her biology homework. She hears the front door open, but stays in her room, her door closed so no one disturbs her. The semester exam was at the end of the week, and she wanted to pass, but science always confused her. She kept studying for about ten more minutes, until a soft knock sounds at her door.  


“Come in.” She calls.  


Enjolras pops his head through. “Come help us decide on dinner. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are here.”  


She stands, bringing her notebook with her. “Sure thing.”  


He disappears back into the living room, leaving the door open. She can hear Courfeyrac complaining over something and imagines the expression Combeferre probably wears. She heads for the couch next to the doctor and has to keep herself from laughing because she was right, the man looks absolutely exasperated. She sits down next to him and watches her other uncle, lying in the one seated recliner with his legs over the arms.  


“Good evening, Olivie.” He looks truly grateful for any chance to ignore his friend.  


“Evenin’ uncle ‘Ferre.”  


Courfeyrac smiles heavily from the sofa and lifts his head, a grin breaking onto his face when he catches her eye.  


“Olly! How nice to see you.” He tries to straighten his head, but only succeeds in contorting his body further. “Has anyone ever told you that you look _stunning_ from this angle?”  


She rolls her eyes and tries to keep the smile off her face.  


“Are you guys staying for dinner?”  


Courfeyrac drops his head back onto the arm rest and sticks out his bottom lip in a pout.  


“Yep. I’ve been exiled.” He whines.  


Combeferre huffs and turns back to her. “Eponine is going to Jehan’s house for a girl’s night, so he kicked him out.”  


She laughed. Jehan took girls’ night seriously, always equipped with a ton of ice cream, rom-coms, nail polish and no small amount of shopping. They were the best.  


Grantaire appeared in the doorway, holding the phone. “Olivie? We’re ordering Thai, what do you want?”  


She lists off her options and she hears him return to the kitchen, prattling off items from the menu.  


“Oh! I meant to ask you,” She turns back to Combeferre. “Could you help me with biology? I think they changed the language setting in the book and I have a test on Friday.” She puts on her best sad eyes for good measure, knowing he would help regardless.  


“Of course I will. Why don’t you tell me what you’re having trouble with?”  


She opens her notebook and relates back the things she’s studying and what she doesn’t understand, and he starts on an explanation he manages, as always, to make incredibly simple. She pays attention, jotting down a few things he says. She’s interrupted from Combeferre’s lesson when her father shouts from the kitchen.  


“What?!”  


Combeferre stops mid-sentence, and in the quiet she hears the rest.  


“Enj, I didn’t mean-” Grantaire is saying quietly.  


Enjolras cuts him off. “You absolutely did!”  


Combeferre and Courfeyrac share a _look_ , and when the doctor turns back, a slight frown is marring his thin lips. She leans back into the sofa, waiting to see if they start fighting in earnest.  


“I stick by what I said, yeah. I was _going_ to say I didn’t mean to upset you.”  


Grantaire’s voice is defensive, and she glances toward Courfeyrac worriedly. He’s sitting up now, beginning to wring his hands together nervously.  


“Didn’t mean to upset me?” His voice comes out shrill, as she notes it only does when he argues with his husband. “You just called Robespierre a _fraud!_ ”  


Beside her, Combeferre let out a heavy breath of relief and Courfeyrac starts giggling as they continue.  


“Stop putting words in my mouth, Enjolras, that’s not what I said.”  


“I’m paraphrasing, because I can’t even sequence the words you just spoke to me.”  


“Lord you’re dramatic. What will it take for me to shut you up? A guillotine?”  


Combeferre is biting his knuckles, trying to stifle his laughter, and Courfeyrac drops his face in his hands, shaking his head slightly. Their voices trailed away as they headed toward the garage.  


“You might remember, if you’re inclined, what Rousseau said about man. ‘…we maintain a middle position between the indolence of our primitive state and the petulant activity of our egocentrism…’”  


“Don’t you _dare_ bring Rousseau into this!”  


“Why? Tired of losing to the same argument I made twenty years ago?”  


“You are insufferable, I swear! You surely cannot believe-” The door shut, cutting of the rest of their conversation.  


Courfeyrac finally lets himself burst into laughter.  


“I can’t believe,” He gasps “We were so worried.”  


Combeferre’s lips twitch up slightly. “They are such children, honestly.”  


Her uncle sprawls back on the sofa, in the same position as before and smirks.  


“Imagine that, Olly, except ten times worse. And without the grey hairs.”  


“Really?” She asks thoughtfully. She’s heard a few remarks from her aunts and uncles about their younger days, here and there, but she perks up at the thought of knowing more.  


“That’s right, right Combeferre?”  


The man in question nods, and adds. “Twenty times worse, really.”  


“Twenty-five might still be on the short spectrum.”  


“So how did they meet then?” She wonders aloud.  


Courfeyrac snorts. “That’s a very long and complicated story.”  


“So? We have time.”  


“Perhaps you ought to wait.” Combeferre suggests uncertainly. “I’m sure you fathers would be glad to tell you of it.”  


“If I ask either of them they’ll just deflect the question and give me a one-sentence overview.”  


“Oh, come on Combeferre. Think of all the embarrassing stories!”  


He rolls his eyes. “Enjolras will destroy you, and I won’t hold him back. Proceed at your own risk.”  


Courfeyrac grinned maniacally and stood up, demanding they _wait right there._ He returns with a whiteboard and an array of dry-erase colors and sits on the floor, patting the space beside him until Olivie slinks down to sit across from him. He picks up the markers and starts scribbling on the board. A minute later, he begins.  


“Once upon a time there was an awfully idealistic revolutionary. A workaholic, he studied for days on end to graduate with a political science degree. In his spare time, when he wasn’t writing essays and dissertations and being a general menace to his overall health, he ran a social justice group!” He turns the board around to show a stick figure wearing a frowny face and a red jacket, surrounded by nondescript heads. “He was always so serious, and he dedicated everything he had to his education and trying to change the world. He was a master of speech, and he gained followers to the Cause wherever he went.” He smiled brightly and turned the board back around, speaking while he continued. “Then, one day, he met the world’s greatest cynic. He stumbled into the Corinth, where the idealist held his meeting and proceeded to get spectacularly sloshed.” He turns the board around to show the same scene, except now with a little bar in the corner with another stick figure, holding a bottle and smiling.  


“But dad told me once papa hates alcohol.” She says, confused.  


“That’s a story you’ll have to ask your fathers about.” Combeferre states from above her. “Continue, Courf.”  


He wipes the board and keeps going.  


“Anyway, the cynic drinks even uncle Bahorel under the table, and yes, he was just as big then as he is now. When he’s successfully beaten ‘Rel, the man turns to the idealist and says, hm, well, what does he say again, Combeferre?”  


**  


“Do you really think you can change anything? You might be a god, but you can’t change human nature.”  


Enjolras faces him, his lips tight with disdain. “Excuse me?”  


“You heard me, Apollo. You’re wasting all your time and energy on inciting change that will never happen.”  


“The people will rise, and when they do, they’ll have no choice but to follow the path the citizens set. Together, we can make a change.”  


“Are you kidding me? You’re all a bunch of bourgeois school boys, preaching about problems that you, as privileged white men, would never dream of having.”  


“I try to use my opportunities as a ‘privileged white man’ to make a difference. If you don’t care for this cause, then why are you here?”  


He holds up the bottle in his hand. “To get drunk and listen to pretty boys expound upon the injustices of the world!”  


**  


“The idealist ignored the cynic after that, and continued to speak to the members of his group as though no one interrupted him. Every one left, but the cynic stayed put at the bar, happy enough to waste the night away. We all forgot about that uneventful night quickly enough, until the meeting after next, the cynic appeared in the bar again and argued the whole night long with the idealist. He tore every argument he gave into tiny, illogical pieces. He was invited back, because anyone who ruffled our dear leader’s feathers had every right to come back. And he did. Again, and again. And they argued, again and again. The idealist screamed, vexed by the cynic and his never ending non-belief.”  


“So this is basically a b-class rom-com?”  


“No, not quite.” Combeferre sighs, and something in his voice makes her think he really wishes it were.  


Courfeyrac held up the white board again to show the blonde stick figure, angry eyebrows and steam rising from his head. Beside him, a stick figure with a riot of black curls and a slight smile.  


“Everyone knew, of course, that the cynic loved the idealist. He came to every meeting, every protest, did everything the idealist asked. Everyone knew, because it was obvious. To everyone except the idealist. The cynic riled him up for attention, because if he didn’t do that, the idealist would never even notice him. If this were a fairytale, or a rom-com, the idealist would realize and set everything straight, but it’s not.” Courfeyrac’s voice became a little lower, almost sad. “So the cynic continued on this self-destructive path for a year and a half. The words became more biting, the atmosphere always tense. It was painful to watch, and Jehan comforted him more times than a person could count, but he never stopped. He continued until one day, the idealist hit too hard, in all the worst places. So the cynic left, and that’s where the story gets interesting. See, nobody saw the-”  


He cut off his speech as the door slammed open.  


“—Listen Enj, I’m just saying, neither of them really made much of a difference.”  


“But what about the newfound thoughts, the philosophical ideas unprecedented before then.”  


“You’re right, he did present new ideas, and look where it got him? Dead and no closer to making any substantial difference.”  


“They played a part in the revolution, and you can’t say the revolution didn’t improve anything!”  


She hears plates and silverware clanking around in the kitchen, the smell of food radiating towards the living room. She thinks they must have gone to the place around the corner, to be back so quickly with food.  


“The only good thing that came from the revolution is Delacroix’s art.”  


“No, but-” They’re emerging from the kitchen, laden with plates and the bag of food in Enjolras’ hands.  


“You can’t refute that, E. You totally had a gigantic poster of Liberty Leading the People in your dorm room.”  


“It’s true, he did.” Courfeyrac butts in.  


Both of their heads snap to the man, as if just realizing they weren’t alone, and Olivie laughs. She tries to imagine her father, the permanent sharpness of his face turned on her good-natured papa, but she just can’t. She grew up with both of them, and all they ever did was love. Even her dad, who happened to also love his work alongside his family, but always made time for her and Grantaire. She wanted to know how the story ended, because she can’t imagine how a person changes from loathe to love. She leaves it for now, though, starting to understand why they might be reluctant to speak of it.  


Instead, she asks Combeferre to continue his lesson, and he turns his full attention to her, already beginning a long winded speech. She tries to look interested, because she knows her uncle loves the subject, and it isn’t hard, his passion is palpable.  


Dinner passes easily, with her uncle speaking about all sorts of things even minutely relating to what she’s studying. He talks about tests and experiments from the past, some world-renowned and others just crazy. Some of them both. She finds herself actually curious, the applied parts of science becoming incredibly fascinating. Courfeyrac, sitting upright on the armchair after Enjolras flicked his head and told him to _stop being such a child,_ is telling a story to her fathers that has even the blonde smiling while Grantaire booms with laughter.  


When she glances back over, her dad’s mouth is gaping and her papa’s is held in a wide grin. She smiles to herself, turning her attention back toward her uncle, and thinks she must have been a saint in another life to win this family.  


**  


She wonders how the story ended more often than not. Especially when she watches her fathers, who go from bickering to laughing in a matter of seconds. It’s funny, now that she thinks of it, that her parents have never told her how they met. She heard details sometimes, off-handed remarks from her fathers and her aunts and uncles, but never a clear story. It burns in the back of her mind, until she gives in.  


“Dad?” She opens the door to their library quietly.  


Enjolras looks up from his book, a thick volume of Robespierre’s history. She notices a highlighter tucked in the bun of his hair and it makes her smile. She wonders if he’s re-reading the book just to prove Grantaire wrong about whatever it is he said. He marks the page and sets the book down, smiling reassuringly at her. She crosses the room and sits on the opposite end of the three seater sofa and faces him.  


“Can I ask you something?”  


He mimics her, turning his body so he sits facing her, giving her his full attention. “Of course.”  


“How did you and papa start dating?”  


If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. Just searches her face before sighing. “Combeferre said you had asked. It is not a very happy story, you understand.”  


“Uncle Courf told me some of it, but he never finished. Besides, I know for a fact it has a happy ending, because, well.” She waves herself over and shrugs.  


“That is true. I also don’t doubt your uncle told you the truth of it, if not a watered down version.”  


“Can I hear your version though?”  


He smiles sadly and nods. “I met your father at my own social justice meetings. It’s my own fault, really, for holding them in a bar that I was subject to stranger’s insults. Your father had a taste for wine in those years, and honestly, he was a something else. Even blackout drunk he debated as well as myself, if not far better in some cases. _Never_ tell him I said that, though.”  


She can’t help a grin sliding onto her face, imagining her father taunting Enjolras for weeks about such an admittance.  


“He showed up on accident, and he personally insulted every belief I ever had.” He shakes his head slightly. “But he kept coming regularly. Everybody loved him, because how could anyone not? You know how he is, and he always made you feel what he wanted you to with a few well-placed words. One sentence would make even Combeferre laugh, or pull Jehan from melancholy. Then, he would turn to me and bite my composure with that same ability. At the time it made no sense, and I’m not sure I completely understand today.” He sighs again and lowers his eyes. “I lost my temper almost every time he spoke to me, and I was too proud to apologize. It felt like a game, and I was too used to winning that I never considered what would happen if he quit. He had every right to leave, so he did, because I said things that still hurt to think about. After a year and a half of constant refutes, he was gone. I found myself stopping at the end of sentences, waiting for a bitter remark, a familiar voice to tear my down my arguments so I could build them again, build them stronger.  


“No one saw him for weeks, and I didn’t understand why it was so painful. It occurred to me, after some time and a few heart to hearts with Combeferre, maybe a slap or two from Jehan, that I _missed_ him. So you know what I did?” He smiles lightly.  


“What?”  


“I went to his house to apologize. I planned, I even had a speech prepared. Instead, he opened the door and punched me in the face. Then I bled on his floor as he apologized profusely. I told him I didn't care, if only he would come back to the meetings, because everybody there just agreed with me and it was so _boring_ without him.  


“He did come back after that, and everyone delighted in teasing me about my face. We still debated, of course. You can’t change human nature, and don’t _ever_ tell your father I just said that, but there was less screaming, less personal attacks. I asked him to have dinner with me, as a date. Officially, we began dating at this point. If you were to ask your father, he would tell you we really started dating the first time I accidentally followed him home because I was too busy explaining exactly why his point was incorrect.” He chuckled. “I was so shocked when I realized, but your father just asked what I wanted for supper. That happened a lot for the next few months, until I finally got the courage to ask him out. The rest is history.”  


“Combeferre said it definitely wasn't a rom-com, but that was the mushiest thing I've ever heard.”  


“We fought a lot until we really understood each other. Then we got married and settled down to have 2.5 kids.”  


“Oh, yes. I see. 2.5 kids, you say. I’m so perfect I count as one multiplied by two and a half.”  


“We spoke of adoption when you had grown. Then we remembered your terrible two’s and opted out.”  


She snorts. “ _Terrible two’s?_ Well, it’s nothing compared to what you just told me of your terrible _twenty-two’s._ Such a petulant young adult.”  


He laughs and reaches over, pinching her chin. “You are your father’s daughter.” He stands up. “Come on, let’s go find him. We can get ice-cream.”  


They found Grantaire in his painting room, covered in every color of the rainbow. He stands at his easel, doing detail work on a painting almost as tall as him. She recognizes the particular colorful style the landscape is done in, a field of every sort of flower, intricately detailed with butterflies and honey bees floating around. She remembers him mentioning Jehan’s commission, and she wonders if the poet’s seen it yet. Maybe she can be there when her father shows him, because she’s sure he might faint.  


She waits by the door when Enjolras calls his name softly, not wanting to startle the man and mess up the painting, and walks in. He puts his hands on the artist’s waist and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it is, it makes him laugh and start to clean up.  


They wait in the living room, chatting absently on the couch until her father emerges, finished cleaning his supplies, but no less clean himself. They head to the car, and when she climbs in the back and everyone’s door is closed, she asks Grantaire,  


“Did you actually punch dad before you started dating?”  


He bursts out in giggles, gasping _right in the nose,_ and Enjolras, now pulling out the driveway, rolls his eyes. He doesn’t stop laughing the whole way to Dairy Queen.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think! I'm absolutely open to prompts at the moment. You could e-mail me at dani80840@hotmail.com or leave me a comment. Hope you liked it.


End file.
